


hate is a strong word

by severalgeckos



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Lowercase, M/M, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-21 06:59:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14279517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/severalgeckos/pseuds/severalgeckos
Summary: “it is a curious subject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at bottom. each, in its utmost development, supposes a high degree of intimacy and heart-knowledge; each renders one individual dependent for the food of his affections and spiritual fife upon another: each leaves the passionate lover, or the no less passionate hater, forlorn and desolate by the withdrawal of his subject.“ —nathaniel hawthorne





	hate is a strong word

narcissus fell prey to his beauty— icarus, the sun.

 

pariston has never found himself to be a victim, however.

 

pariston hill does not hate. hatred is passion, hatred is weakness, hatred is the gap in a ribcage where a knife can plunge into your heart. no, he does not have the desire, or the effort, to feel anything that intense for the dolls he toys with.

 

not until ging.

 

ging slithers his way under his skin and rests in his veins, unnoticeable but always _there,_ like the unnerving urge to push someone off of a cliff, to swerve into oncoming traffic, to stab through your middle just to feel what’s underneath. he’s an open book written in a dead language and pariston tries and tries and tries to decipher it but the sentences never fully come together, always _just_ shy of legible, always just a hair’s length away.

 

others label him a sadist; however, pariston toys with people (things) for enjoyment— masochistic pleasure that comes only from the knowledge that he is absolutely and undoubtedly _loathed._ he feels love towards the hands wrapped tight around his neck, the venomous words, the hateful gazes. he cares little for the actions he takes to acquire those things— means to an end, as they say. in a morbid way, he supposes he loves the people who hurt him, who give him the gratification he works towards.

 

that’s why it felt so unnatural when he heard the quiet murmurs of _hate_ in the back of his mind.

 

maybe it’s because ging and he are too alike. maybe it’s because he vehemently refuses to feel anything other than dull apathy towards him.

 

maybe, he was just tired of love.

 

that is what drifts through his mind as he’s slammed _hard_ against the door of his penthouse. ging ruts against him, animalistic and rough and _this, this is what pariston is used to._ he smells like patchouli and gasoline, earthy in a way that contrasts sharply with pariston’s lavish, sterile-as-a-hospital home. broad hands pull apart his shirt— he absently notes that he’ll need to call his tailor about those buttons as they hit the floor— and quickly shuck it off, letting it drop to the floor beneath them.

 

ging bites down on the newly exposed skin of his neck, hard enough to break through the delicate skin and draw a low groan from him.

 

pariston can feel his satisfied smirk against his skin, and it makes his blood run hot in a completely different way.

 

“bedroom,” he orders, voice gruff and drenched in the scent of cheap liquor. pariston lets himself be hauled up into his arms with a grip that’s definitely going to leave a bruise. he doesn’t need directions towards his room; they’ve been through this plenty of times before.

 

ging drops him unceremoniously onto the bed before turning to grab what he needs from the bedside drawer. pariston watches him through the minimal lighting provided by his wall-length window, watches the way his unkempt hair curls against the nape of his neck, the movement of his muscles under his clothes.

 

in a different situation, this may have been called love— the obsession, the want, the pulse thrumming beneath his chest. but then it seeps through, like sunlight through a ripped curtain: the urge, the _need_ to hurt him, to break him into irrecoverable fragments. he smiles gently at the other man, meeting his gaze when he turns around.

  
  


on second thought, he’s content with letting ging be the downfall of his own greek tragedy.

 

maybe they will break together.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m gonna be real i’m drunk as fuck writing this and i don’t even know if it’s like, actual words, i just thought of pariging and that hawthorne quote and was like hell yeah. no proofreading because i’m a bad bitch, pariston’s the baddest bitch, thanks for reading


End file.
